


Adjustment

by KSOB



Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 12:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14934279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KSOB/pseuds/KSOB
Summary: A brief glimpse at life after the finale. Spoilers for the end of the show.





	Adjustment

Memories of the first several weeks in Moscow eluded Elizabeth completely. One of the officers overseeing their debrief suggested that she write down her daily activities to help her memory recall, but she had no appetite for it; she had no appetite for much of anything during those days, as depression and culture shock took over despite the attempts the Centre made to ease she and Philip back into life in their home culture. They were set up, at first, in a very nice apartment with every bell and whistle the capitol city had to offer, but after weeks of feeling out of place and terribly uncomfortable, they requested to be relocated to a small home in a smaller town nearby, the location of which was only known by few within their organization’s leadership. Their request was granted within hours, the immediacy at which the Centre sought to please them a little overwhelming. They had everything they could need at their whim, the party officials quick to fulfill the needs of two of the most successful Directorate S Officers in the history of the KGB. 

Their official debrief had taken months. It was a grueling schedule at first; Elizabeth and Philip spent hours in small soundproof rooms where they poured over past operations and current needs, often reaching the point where one, if not both of them, would resort to rubbing their foreheads in their hands and requesting a short break. The KGB rarely had officers of their caliber and history return home and those assigned to debrief the famous “Jennings” were itching at their chance to unpack the knowledge held by operatives who would surely go down in the history books as some of the best of their organization.

But debrief proved to be more challenging than anticipated. Tired, shattered and still in shock Philip and Elizabeth were slow to recall details, had difficulty remembering certain aspects of operations and, for the first few days, struggled with the speaking their native tongue. It was understandable, they had not used proper Russian in decades, and while basic grammar and vocabulary came flooding back with ease they frequently found themselves failing to come up with the correct technical word that they would not have used as frequently in their 22 years of life before English was their only language. It was common for debrief sessions to be conducted in Russian but peppered with the English versions of “transmit,” “operational,” and “surveillance.” Elizabeth, in particular, did her best to avoid any sentence where use of the word “weaponized” would be required as she failed to recall the Russian equivalent despite her most valiant efforts to remember it.

Besides the lack of proper language at times and their obvious culture shock the element that most slowed their debrief was their pure and utter emotional exhaustion. Officers were quick to be patient with Philip and Elizabeth at first, knowing their exfiltration was harrowing and they had experienced more trauma in a 12-hour period than most people could imagine. The knowledge that Philip and Elizabeth contained, though, was expansive and the window for a proper and accurate debrief closing quickly. So they pressed on, session after session, trying to pick apart what the FBI knew now and how their people still on the field may need to adjust in order to maintain their networks, if at all possible now that every thread connected to Philip and Elizabeth was being tugged at violently by the American government to see which ones would give.

Debrief eventually came to a crawling pace, the Centre feeling as if they had finally squeezed every drop of helpful information from their officers and, while still occasionally called in for insight into operational protocol, the fanfare had mostly died off and Philip and Elizabeth were left alone. While they were both grateful that the season of never-ending questions had come to an end, the emptiness that followed it was crushing. Swift as winter, depression had settled in their household. They struggled with what names to call each other, “Mikhail” and “Nadezdha” being used during official meetings, but feeling awkward on their own tongues when alone. They had never called each other by those names, had never known each other by them and to begin using them now made them feel as if they were speaking with strangers. They were unsure what names to use when introducing themselves to others, which language to speak in public and in private, how to behave in the house now that the children were —

Moscow was generous to offer them a large house, which was quickly and flatly refused by both of them. Elizabeth couldn’t bear the thought of having two empty rooms haunting her in her home and Philip read the pain in her eyes and immediately knew why she would say no to anything but a one-bedroomed house. Those in charge of their resettlement found it odd, but were quickly admonished by their superiors for having such short-sighted vision in their planning. The story of having to leave one child behind just to have the other abandon them was well-known among the organization and no one wanted to broach the subject again after a particularly icy moment during their second week of debriefing when Paige’s name came up for the first time. Desperate to know if they should be concerned that Paige would be talking with the authorities back in the States the interviewer asked Elizabeth her thoughts on her daughter’s current emotional status. Elizabeth froze, then turned piercing eyes on to the people sitting across from her, knowing more were watching on the other side of the two-way mirror and spoke, with pure venom in her voice, “Do not ask me about my children.” They complied; Paige and Henry were never discussed in their debriefing again. The only person who was able to bring up the children with either of them was Gabriel, and the only comment he ever offered was, “We can work on exfiltrating them in a few more years.”

Both Philip and Elizabeth knew this was a fantasy.

At first they relied on each other as they adjusted. Their relationship had invariably shifted and the distance which was prevalent during their marriage months prior to their departure had vanished altogether. They found it difficult to be separated, post traumatic anxiety quietly creeping into their lives and each spouse acting as an anchor to reality for the other. Elizabeth was more affectionate than she had previously been in their marriage, clinging to Philip’s hand when they walked and curling tightly against him on their shared bed at night. Her fears of being seen as weak if she needed him long banished and the shaky ground on which she now stood resulted in her openly admitting she needed the man she had been paired with decades ago. 

But then, about ten months in, her behavior began to shift, and it was with growing concern that Philip began to see Elizabeth with new eyes. As the months ticked by a terrifying apathy seemed to take up residence in her, she grew more isolated and most nights she cried herself to sleep. The weight of their reality was becoming too much to bear, now that the shiny honeymoon stage of culture shock had worn off, and her mind replayed over and over again the confused sound of Henry’s voice on the phone, a constant loop of the mental image of Paige standing on that goddamned platform impossible to shut off. Moscow was never truly her home to begin with, save for a brief time at the completion of her training, and the change in her country’s capitol only disillusioned her further, offering her no solace as she grappled with deep open wounds too monstrous to address and too nightmarish to ignore. 

Philip, equally broken and confused at their sudden shift in life, had little time to mourn as he watch his wife begin to wither away before his eyes. As she retreated deeper into herself Philip was forced out of his own despair in a desperate attempt to reach Elizabeth and keep her on this side of sane. Having rarely, if ever, seen her this emotionally rattled he struggled to find ways to help her through it, all attempts at talking it out shut down swiftly and without the added edge in her voice he was so used to hearing. He would have welcomed the fire in her spirit, the stony expression she had given him countless times before in exchange for the emptiness that now took up residence in her eyes. 

To his heartache he had, on more than one occasion, come home to find her seated on the couch, head heavily hung in one hand and a near-empty bottle tightly gripped in the other. Her job or her children had always been reason enough to keep alcohol at a distance back in Virginia, but neither of those elements existed now and she gave in to the false sense of comfort a drink offered at the end of a day where memories were impossible to mute in her mind. On evenings like this it usually required a good deal of coaxing on his part to loosen her grip on the bottle and instead encourage her to bury her tear-stained face into his shirt, her hold on the fabric tight enough to pull it apart if she so desired. She would sob, desperate self-accusations being confessed against his chest as he cradled her and tried to call her back to herself. She never cried and it terrified him every time he witnessed it, the level of her depression becoming more and more real to him with each now too familiar scene. As a result of such evenings he had become accustomed to carrying her to bed, and lying with his arm protectively around her as he agonizingly tried to lull her to sleep while she spoke confessions through broken tears. Inevitably Philip would always silently thank a God he did not believe in when he felt her rhythmic breathing signal that she was finally asleep.

Tonight, however, was not one such night. For weeks now Elizabeth seemed to be pulling herself from her sadness, having one day awoken and staunchly decided that her season of heavy grieving had come to an end, whether she was ready or not, and more out of sheer willpower than genuinely feeling better she found other ways to cope with the impossible ache that filled her chest day and night. Going for a run at an almost masochistic pace, reacquainting herself with cooking recipes from her childhood and, ironically enough, drawing in a worn sketchpad became her therapy and, with the aid, comfort and love of Philip, she began to piece herself back together as much as time would allow.

Philip came home with a bag of groceries in one hand and a gift hidden behind his back in the other. He set both items down out of view of Elizabeth’s eye and made his way to the kitchen, where he heard her at work at something on the stove. Turning her head over her should when she heard his footsteps she smiled and offered a soft, “Hi,” as she stirred something cooking on the stovetop. He watched her cook, her attention returning to the meal and her back to the kitchen doorway as a record played softly in the background. Philip smiled and leaned against the doorframe watching her for a moment, grateful for a private scene of his wife seemingly happy. Unable to stand the distance any longer he came up behind her, wrapped both arms around her waist and pressed his cheek against hers, warmth spreading through his body as he felt her smile widen.

“Smells good,” he reached a sneaky hand into the pan to draw out a particularly golden piece of potato before she smacked it away playfully.

“You’ll burn your fingertips off.”

“Eh, who needs ‘em?” He popped the potato into his mouth.

“It’s going to be hot,” she warned as he inhaled loudly, an unsuccessful attempt to cool down the exceptionally hot bite which now singed his tongue. “Serves you right,” she scolded.

“What are you making?” He swallowed and resumed his former position of having his chest pressed against her back, his hands now coming to rest on either side of the countertop in front of her.

“Nothing fancy, really. Just threw together what we had in the fridge. Did you get the sour cream?”

Philip waited a beat then correct, “Smetana.”

Elizabeth nodded before repeating the word to herself.

“I did,” he confirmed before pressing a gentle kiss at the hairline behind her ear.

“And the dill?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He decided to let this choice of American vocabulary slide rather than correct it, and instead decided to let his lips lingered a bit longer on her skin, grateful for the small reward of her shoulder shrugging up in response to his touch.

“Stop it. Go in the other room, you are distracting,” she half-heartedly rebuked, her eyes dancing with contentment out of his line of sight.

“That,” he nibbled softly at the spot just behind her earlobe, “is exactly the point.” Philip’s heart skipped a beat at her reaction, the slight hitch in her breathing and the way she slowly tipped her head to the side to give him better access.

“You are too distracting,” her voice was the slightest degree deeper, but still playful.

Changing direction in the conversation he whispered tantalizingly against her skin, “I have a surprise for you.”

“You do, do you?” Her smile widened suspiciously, her free hand coming to rest on his arm which had again snaked its way around her waist.

“Close your eyes.”

“I’m cooking, Philip.”

He smiled at the use of his American name after a long day of being called “Mikhail.” Philip; her name for him and hers alone now.

“C’mon. Close your eyes. I promise it won’t take long.”

Elizabeth sighed, turned her body to face him, her expression full of incredulousness and feigned irritation. But he smiled and she melted, shut off the burner and closed her eyes. She stood in the kitchen and felt his body move away from hers, the temptation to peek running strong through her instincts. Moments later the music she had playing came to a stop and another, more upbeat sound began to waft through their small home. It started with a heavy synthesizer sound, followed by drums, a catchy bass-line and then a familiar voice.

Can you hear me calling   
Out your name  
You know that I'm falling and I don't know what to say  
I'll speak a little louder  
I'll even shout  
You know that I'm proud and I can't get the words out

Elizabeth’s eyes came open as recognition of the vocalist and realization of the risk it presented hit her.

“How did you —”

Philip was all smile. “Let’s just say someone at the office had a connection.”

“A connection?” Her disbelief and accusation was evident in her tone. “To get you a record of American music?” Elizabeth knew imports such as these were practically illegal and possession of American material not approved by the State was dangerous to come by.

“Maybe I have a connection with Christine McVie herself,” his voice was light as he teased, taking a step toward her.

Still, the comforting and airy sounds of the song were welcomed by her ears, taking her back to a life long-abandoned but never forgotten. She shut her eyes for a moment, letting the lyrics and peppy beat wash over her and allowed herself, for the briefest of moments, to imagine she was standing in her kitchen in Falls Church, lunch meals strewn about the counter, thunderous feet parading upstairs as the morning circus swelled into full chaos; Henry shouting from the landing with a request for a bowl of cereal and Paige —

Her eyes opened and Philip saw the shadow pass across her face, knowing where her mind had gone. With soft feet he sauntered across the kitchen using his best dance moves, placed a gentle and playful hand against her arm and slowly slid it down and out, finally grasping her hand in his. He spun her slowly under his arm and pulled her toward him. Elizabeth met his eyes as he moved her, pain and regret having filled them for a moment before Philip’s goofy expression banished her memories and left her with no option other than to smile and step closer to her husband. He laced their fingers, wrapped his left arm around her waist and pulled her into a slow swaying dance. She pressed her cheek against his as he led them back and forth while the song played on.

Oh I  
I want to be with you everywhere  
Oh I  
I want to be with you everywhere

Philip had not had the chance to listen to the song before sneaking the record home and now, hearing the sentiment in the song’s verse and pressed so close to his wife, the only thing of importance he had left, the moment shifted again to somber. He pulled their joined hands up to rest against his chest and slowed down, now awkwardly out of sync with the song as he felt Elizabeth grow heavy against him. 

They swayed for a moment longer and she exhaled while tucking her face deeper against his cheek. Raw emotion filling her again she pulled back slightly, her face lifting up toward his as she tried to meet his eyes. Unable to stand the expression he knew she would so openly give him he instead leaned forward, letting his eyes fall shut as he rested his forehead against hers. The music continued to wash over them, fading gently into the background of their minds as they danced slowly in their kitchen. 

Elizabeth shut her eyes and struggled to keep herself together as she realized that, somewhere along the years, the man before her had become the pillar on which all of her life leaned. Philip was there for every important moment of her adult life and, more often than not, he was the co-star of those moments. He sat across from her as she stared into the void, emotionlessly recounting her first attempt at source recruitment gone awry. He rubbed her back as she heaved into the toilet during the horrendous early months of her first pregnancy. He had held her while she tried to breathe her way through contractions during labor, unable to soften them with medication out of fear that her mother tongue may slip while sedated. He disciplined then spoiled her children, bought her birthday presents she never needed but could not bring herself to return. He had celebrated countless operational victories with her over their shared bottle of vodka they kept hidden in their bedroom, and helped her refuse to use that same bottle to numb the pain when operations failed. Philip had protected her, sacrificed everything for her safety and happiness, killed for her. 

Her husband; her Philip.

With her eyes closed and her forehead still pressed against his she spoke, her words coming out as barely a whisper, but it was enough for him to hear it as if it had been shouted with every ounce of energy she possessed.

“I love you.”

Philip felt as if she had stolen the very breath from his lungs. She had never told him that before, not with words anyway. Elizabeth had hardly ever told the children she loved them, a painful truth that now followed her heavy heart around like a ghost. He knew she loved him; she had married him, agreed to take his name when they thought they would be returning home under different circumstances and, as they stood over the grave of their former lives, handed him the wedding rings he had purchased for their private marriage ceremony in a damp basement. She loved him, he had no doubt, but to hear her admit it now was almost more than he could bear. His heart swelled to bursting and the arm around her waist grew instinctively more tight, his fingers digging slightly into her side as he drew in a sharp breath. 

He pulled away from her and stared into her face, waiting as she took an extra second to open her eyes, and watched her inhale the emotional strength to face him after such a vulnerability. She did, confidence and relief pouring from her expression as her eyes sought his. He smiled, leaned forward and kissed her gently on her forehead, allowing his lips to linger there just long enough for her free hand to make its way toward the soft hair at the base of his neck. 

“I love you, Philip,” she repeated, more sure of herself now that the words had been tested once and seemed to pass.

Philip returned his forehead to her own and met her eyes. There was a sadness deep in them that he suspected would never fully dissipate, but the overwhelming theme to her expression was peace, contentment, happiness. She was his and he was all she had. For both of them, for now, this was enough. 

He he held her gaze, a bright light shining in his eyes. Confession poured out for the hundredth time as he stared into her gentle eyes he whispered, “I love you,” then, softer and with his lips now buried in her hair just above her ear, “Elizabeth.”

The record started playing the song for a second time, angry that it had been ignored and, unwilling or unable to pull away just yet, they remained pressed against one another as Philip led Elizabeth in a slow, steady sway back and forth.


End file.
